


Matchsticks

by FlatlandDan



Series: Burning Bright [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Child Death, Christmas, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He spends the days telling himself that he should be grateful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matchsticks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Christmas apart.
> 
> Please note: If you're looking for a happy festive fic, I'd look elsewhere. I completely understand. This is angst filled and sad, with a few lovely moments in between. It has, at best, a bittersweet ending.

Clint huffed into his hands, letting the warmth bounce back onto his face before putting them back over the fire burning in the barrel.

'twas the night before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring because he was undercover as a homeless man and so had no house.

He spends the days telling himself that he should be grateful. Four months ago when he had stood in front of Fury on the damaged helicarrier he had been. No one had spoken about a need to prove his loyalties, a need to redeem himself, but Clint had felt it so keenly that he would have taken a mission to hell if that had been on the table. _Son, this one might take a while_ , Fury had warned him. _But I wouldn't be taking you away from the Avengers Initiative if I didn't think you were the only man for the job._

He had been grateful through the long dog days of summer, when he had first arrived at the village with a backpack mostly full of medical gear, matches,his bow and quiver, and the oldest clothes either of them had owned. He had spread the word he was a backpacker out of money through the local grapevine by using most of his cash to call the SHIELD switchboard and ask his family to send more. He eked out two weeks of meals before he gratefully accepted work to help bring in the harvest before winter, more grateful for the work to occupy his mind then money in his pocket or the soup for his meals. Six weeks of work passed in slow but steady progress. He grew a beard, learned a little of the local language, and made a deal to sleep in an outbuilding of the family who employed him. On the last day they had a party (Thor would have called it a feast, but after two months he still couldn't quite bring himself to think of that week) and he had helped the oldest kids climb to the top of the large tree in the yard. He had been introduced to the family on the first day, mother, grandmother, three young children, but had used his training to unlearn the names as soon as he could. They spoke very little English, he spoke even less of the local dialect, but that day when the mother had stood at the bottom of the tree and smiled even as she yelled at them from the bottom of the tree he knew they understood each other, a little. He handed her children down the last few feets, ate a last meal sat in front if they're home, and was grateful she trusted him. He made a fire that night in the yard and taught the children how to make shadow puppets while the adult had laughed.

The money lasted him another careful six weeks, getting him a room closer to the city, food and a phone call once a week to the SHIELD switchboard. he saw the family often in town, grandma always ready to smile toothlessly at him and pat his arm reassuringly and the children wanting piggy back rides. There was snow on the ground when he ran out of cash again, his last pleading call ending abruptly in disconnection. Please, mom. I want to come home...

He didn't think he really had a home anymore, not on the helicarrier with suspicious people and empty offices. Not without...he stopped himself then. Of all the collateral damage he had caused, one piece he could not forgive or forget. He missed him every single day, little reminders on an hourly basis around the village of everything he had that was gone now. The first pang of missing anything besides him came when he heard Tony Stark as clear as day through the door of the cafe cum bar. He didn't have the money to spare, but the owner let him nurse a coffee for four hours as he waited for the Avengers to show up in the Thanksgiving Day parade. Tasha's awkward wave to the crowd had made him laugh and for the first time he wanted this warlord to try and get more extortion money out of this village. Let him follow through on his veiled threats and try to drive tanks through here. Clint was ready with his bow and quiver in an old rucksack. He was ready to go back and yes, that was what he was grateful for that year. A cup of coffee, a slowly healing heart, 56 matches a village that made sure he didn't starve and a family who tried to give him a little hope. There is a dark 48 hours when he wonders if SHIELD is just going to leave him here forever, let him hang like a fish on a hook, but then he remembers just how deadly he is. It’s a shock, to remember who he is, and he takes out his bow and a spends an hour high up in the hills shooting at twigs propped between rocks. It’s enough to convince him that if SHIELD didn’t want him, they wouldn’t leave him alive.

It’s Christmas Eve now and he’s wearing every piece of clothing he owns and standing beside a fire in a barrel. He had three matches left to his name and is taking a broad spectrum antibiotic for an ear infection that is lingering. He’s trying to find things to be grateful for, and the antibiotics are pretty much the only thing on the list. Except, he’s grateful that no one else is here. That no one else is enduring this mission.

Clint hears the branches crack, the wheels of the donkey drawn cart rattle and the laughter before he sees them, his little extended family from up in the hills. The children ran up to him with clothes so new he didn't want to hug them in case he made them dirty. Mother didn't seem to mind though, just watches as he eats a big bowl of dumpling soup. He makes shadow puppets for the children again, until the Father (Abraham, his mind supplied despite his best efforts) pulls him aside and put a cell phone into his hand.

"Try." Clint demures, pushing the phone back into Abraham’s hands and shakes his head. An international phone call on a cell phone will use up a lot of credit on it, and even though he has nothing right now at some point he’s pretty sure he’ll either make it back to New York or die out here. The roughly 50% chance that he won’t be able to pay them back is too high. Mother (Anna, his mind brings failing him again) is next to Abraham now, he hand over her heart.

“Your mother.” She rubs a circle around her heart and Clint wishes he knew enough words to tell them that the only person who had cared for him enough to warrant her motions was dead.  
He can’t do anything but smile and her face blossems and by the time he made his fingers dial the SHIELD operative switchboard everyone was smiling.

"Hi Mom? It's Phil. Merry Christmas."

"Phil, it’s your sister. Everyone else is out. We’ve been waiting for you to call.”

“Not much to call about, I’m still waiting for the money to show up.”

“It should be there soon.” There is a pause on the other end and Clint thinks he might be disconnected. “Mother left a note saying that if you called I should transfer you to her cell phone. Hold on a minute, Phil.” There’s another pause, a slight click, and then a ghost starts talking to him.

“Phil? It’s, ah, your uncle.”

“Phil.” he says dryly. “You’re dead.”

“I was just resting.”

“Jesus, this is not a good joke.” In front of him Anna crosses herself and he winces. Six sets of troubled eyes are watching him and he knows this isn’t the joyful conversation they expected to hear.

“Your mother didn’t want to tell you anything until I was out of the woods and then you didn’t call. It’s good to hear from you.” The phone starts to crackle a bit, Phil sounds distant on the other end and Clint inhales sharply. There are a million things he wants to say and none of them he can on an unsecure line.

“I think we’re losing the connection. God, I...” There is nothing but a dial tone for him speak to, but wants to finish his sentence anyhow. “I miss you. I want to come home for Christmas.”

Anna doesn’t cross herself when he hands the phone back, but just does reach over and pull him into a hug. He rests his head on her shoulder and sighs. He wants to tell her that the tears are mostly of relief, of joy, but he can’t because he’s just impossibly sad as well. They’re rocking a little, side to side, and when she pulls away there is a handkerchief in her hand and she reaches up to wipe away the tear lines on his face. Her face is resolved and she nods once before launching into a diatribe that has kids scurrying back to the carts and Abraham going to put out his fire. Clint launches at him, trying desperately to tell him no, he has to keep the fire going, but Abraham just shakes his head and dumps all of Clint’s drinking water on it. The kids are tossing his bag into the cart and just like that he’s being hustled along by Anna into onto the front seat and the donkey is moving.

They take him to church. Clint hasn’t been since he left the orphanage years ago, but he remembers when to sit and when to kneel and the songs are mostly the same so he mumbles along in English. The church itself is beautiful old stone, lit with candles and has birds nesting in the eves. He can’t bring himself to be angry at being there because Clint believes in gods now, as much as Phil believes in heroes. He’s seen both with his own eyes and he’s pretty much willing to accept Phil being alive as a miracle. Being angry in a house of God doesn’t seem like the best plan right now, not when he has so much to be grateful for.

It’s dawn when he hears the tanks rumble in the distance, and his heart rabbits in his chest because they’re so much closer to the village then he is and he thinks he’s already failed. He’s armed within two minutes, bow and quiver on his back and two Glocks on his hips and running out of the building. Abraham is out, clutching a rifle in his hands and peering into the first light.

“Take the family and run.” Clint shouts at him, praying that he’ll be understood and Abraham nods once before going back into the house. It’ll all Clint can do as he sprints for town.

There are two tanks, old Soviet era monsters, rampaging over outer buildings. His priority are the people, main target a face he has burned into his memory. They have the villagers lined up against the cafe wall and Clint doesn’t hesitate, just calmly takes the shots until everyone he doesn’t recognise is dead. He takes a photo of the target lying dead in the street and avoids eye contact with everyone before turning back to deal with the tanks. There are three now, but the ancient armour isn’t much of a match for his explosive tipped arrows and they can’t aim at anything smaller then him. There is a background of screaming, crying, pain and for the first time months he feels alive with purpose until suddenly it’s silent around him. The village is empty save for burning buildings, bodies and himself. It’s time to leave.

He sees the smoke a mile before the building, drifting over the hills so perfectly it could have been fog and starts to run again. The outer buildings are burning, but the house itself is intact save for the six bullet holes in the wood on the left side. He leans against the corner, face set, tries to compartmentalise what is in front of him. Six strangers he worked for. To close. Six pieces of collateral damage. He feels the bile rise up into his mouth.

“Abraham. Anna. Grandma Maria. Ezekiel. Thomas. Alison.” There is no one alive to hear his voice, but he knows he can’t do anything else but commit them to memory. They are the fourth family he’s lost in his life and he suddenly feels exhausted. He walks into the house and takes the phone off the table and dials.

“Hi, it’s Phil. The money came today. I’d like to come home now.”

The matches weigh heavy in his pocket as he boards the quinjet and Natasha takes one look at his face before silently lifting off. They pass over the church, one corner knocked down, and Clint tries to stop the words he giveth and he taketh away from churning over in his mind.

“Clint,” she says softly beside him and he shakes his head. “I’ll take you back to the Tower.” He should ask about Phil, the real Phil, about the rest of the team and about herself. There are so many things he’s missed, and yet when they cross from the land to the sea he finds no joy in the anticipation. He dozes, listens to Tasha speaking softly on the comms without really listening to her words, and when they land on Stark Tower the only person there to meet him is Phil Coulson. He looks tired and in pain but he grips Clint by the wrist and walks him through the empty corridors into a room Clint has never been in before that is full of his stuff. He’s stripped and pushed under the shower before he’s pulled out of it and pressed into warm towels and warmer sleeping clothes and then the warmest blanket and the softest bed. Phil crawls in with him and they lie there, face to face in the moonlight streaming through the windows.

“I don’t want to talk.” He says finally, and Phil nods, his hand still on Clint’s wrist rubbing circles into it.

“We don’t have to talk.”

“I don’t want to debrief.”

“Ok.”

“I don’t want to be an Avenger anymore.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want to work for SHIELD.”

“We can leave.”

“I just want....” Phil pulls him close and brackets his arms around Clint’s head, slowly rocking him. He doesn’t even realise he’s crying until Phil wipes the tears with the corner of his t-shirt and then Clint is crying more.

He doesn’t believe in God, or salvation, repentance, heroes or miracles anymore. He believes one thing, that is that he’s a matchstick and everything he touches will burn. He holds Phil close and prays.


End file.
